


born with a void, hard to destroy

by theglitterati



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Image, Body Worship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, M/M, Men Crying, Mirrors, Pole Dancing, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-27 22:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theglitterati/pseuds/theglitterati
Summary: Connor is forced to confront new emotions about his body in a stressful situation. Luckily, Hank is there to pick up the pieces.





	1. Club

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Valley of the Dolls by Marina and the Diamonds.
> 
> The violence is a very small part of the story related to the case they're working on. It's not too bad but I tagged it just in case. If you can sit through an episode of Law & Order, you'll be more than fine.

“My god,” Hank said, head upturned. “This place makes the Eden Club look like a Mom and Pop shop.”

Connor took in the neon signs blazing on the front of the old warehouse, the sex acts frankly depicted in their looping glow. The security staff checking IDs and LEDs at the front door.

“That analogy is apt,” he said. “Shall we go inside?” Hank nodded, and led the way.

The club was what people of Hank’s generation might call _ bumpin’, _packed with at least a thousand people pushing against each other, some in efforts to reach the stage, others just to touch. The décor here was nothing like the sickly purple-and-pink of the Eden Club; it was all black walls and wailing guitars. Grungier, more human — and more threatening.

The purpose of the place was the same, though. Stripping and sex acts, and lots of them. The strip club, where Connor and Hank now found themselves, was in the middle of the building, surrounded by a perimeter of private rooms. Humans and androids headed towards the doors to those rooms in pairs, threesomes, and larger groups, but the majority of the crowd was here, watching the strip show on stage.

“Jesus Christ,” Hanks yelled over the music, “I can’t hear fucking anything. How are we going to find this guy?” Their business at the club was professional, not personal, though they wore plain clothes to blend in. They were on the hunt for a killer, someone, likely human, who rented an android from a different club every night, brutally hacking off their genitals and then shutting them down. The likeliest explanation for the killings, Connor and Hank agreed, was that they were a reaction to the recent debates about android reproduction. Ignorant, because android reproduction had nothing to do with their simulated genitals, but the killer was certainly making a statement.

The killer was also smart. Each of the three androids killed so far had been rented with a different fake ID. The perpetrator was careful to stay away from security cameras, and the androids they took were so brutalized that their memories couldn’t be recovered. Connor and Hank didn’t have much to go on.

“It will take me… five hours and eight minutes to scan everyone in this crowd,” Connor said to Hank. “If the killer is here tonight, their next victim will be dead by then.”

“What if we narrowed the list down a bit? If we had a profile?”

“I would still need an unobstructed view of the person’s face to analyze them,” Connor said. “I cannot get that in this crowd. Also, we don’t have a profile,” he added.

“No shit,” Hank mumbled.

“We need a better view.”

“What we really need is a way to bring him to us,” Hank corrected. “...Or maybe both.” A sparkle appeared in his eye that Connor knew meant he had just gotten an idea.

“What is it?”

Hank inclined his head toward the stage, where two Tracis twerked for dollar bills. “We could attract his attention.”

“Are you suggesting that we go up on stage and make it known that there are police officers here tonight, and then see who in the crowd reacts?”

Hank snorted. “Half the people in this club are gonna ‘react’ to that, Connor. It’s not a bible study.”

Connor frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are suggesting, then.”

“He’s killing android sex workers. Male ones,” Hank said.

Connor blinked at him.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes, I think you will have to.”

Hank threw an arm toward the stage. “Get up there and put on a show!”

Oh. Connor had not been expecting that. “I was not expecting that,” he said. “I… I’m not programmed for that.”

“So? Download a tutorial video!” Hank said. “Or do you mean that… I mean… do you not have… please don’t make me say it.”

“I have genitals, Hank, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yes, that is what I was… never mind. Let’s talk to the manager and get you up there.”

*

They were able to come to an agreement with the manager quickly. He looked at their badges, and then at Connor, and said, “sure, what the hell. Actually, I’ve got the perfect outfit for you. Follow me.”

“Break a leg!” Hank called out as Connor hurried after the manager. “It’s an expression!” he added, when Connor looked shocked.

Connor and the manager came to a rack of costumes in dry-cleaning bags. The manager looked through their tags, and then handed one to Connor.

“Here we go. Dressing rooms are over there. You’re on in ten.” And then he was gone.

Connor, aware that the clock was ticking and unsure of how complex this costume was going to be, hurried into the nearest room. He pulled the bag’s zipper down to find… navy tearaway slacks, a matching button-down, and a plastic badge. Oh no.

*

Ten minutes later, Connor was dressed in the shitty fake cop costume, its cheap — and highly flammable! As Connor’s sensors indicated! — material chafing at his skin. He had downloaded everything he could find online about pole dancing and stripping, including several moves, routines, and the social norms surrounding them. He joined the other dancers in line to wait for their turn onstage.

“Hello,” he said politely to the dancer in front of him. “My name is Connor. What’s yours?”

The woman in front of him, a human in a schoolgirl outfit, turned and gave him a dirty look. “Get fucked, dude,” she said. Connor made a note that perhaps backstage waiting to take your clothes off for money was not a good place for small talk.

The manager clapped his hands to get their attention. “Alright, listen up. If you’re human, you’re out there for three songs. Androids, you’re out there ‘til I say so. Let’s make some money, people.”

Forty-seven seconds later, the music changed, the previous dancers left the stage, and Connor and the rest of his group stepped onto it.

The view really was much better from up here. Connor would have no problem reading the face of anyone in the crowd, provided the dancers were able to keep their attention. Connor was ready to do just that. He stepped up to an unoccupied pole in the middle of the stage.

Connor pulled himself up with his inhumanly strong arms. There would be no challenge in the athletics of this endeavour for him. He would be able to perform the move known as the Human Flag, holding himself completely horizontal on the pole, with no problem. He did so a few times, just to warm up. He expected a bit of applause, frankly, but none came. He guessed he wasn’t the first android to show off a little.

He started to spin on the pole, lifting himself up and sliding down. As he did, he sought out Hank’s face in the crowd. It was difficult, though; the place was just so packed.

Then a message came in: _ That uniform looks stupid as hell. _ Just as it did, Connor caught sight of Hank in the sea of people, laughing his ass off.

Connor and Hank were thrilled when they figured out Hank could send messages from his phone directly into Connor’s head. He typed it out, and Connor heard it. Then Connor could reply using just his own software. It was great for when they were in high pressure situations and needed to communicate without others knowing, though Connor did wish he could beam his messages straight into Hank’s brain, too.

_ I prefer my regular work attire, _ Connor sent back with a smirk, still twirling around the pole. He’d given up the CyberLife jacket, but mostly stuck to the same style: long coats, ties, slacks. It seemed like the appropriate wardrobe for a detective, which is what he was now, officially.

“Take your clothes off, officer!” screamed a female voice from the crowd. Connor scanned her face, but it wasn’t necessary; even a human could see that she was with a bachelorette party, wearing a pin that read _ Maid Of Honour_. Connor averted his eyes from her quickly.

_ You should, _ Hank’s voice said in his head. _ Take your clothes off, I mean. Everyone else is practically naked and you’re starting to look weird. _

Connor glanced around and saw that Hank was right. Practice time was over.

He pulled up a stripping routine specific to the cop theme from YouTube, then executed the program. He made a few adjustments; slowed the routine down to a tantalizing speed, threw his plastic badge to the maid of honour when his shirt came off.

After the shirt came his pants, and soon he was down to nothing but a service cap and a tiny pair of spandex shorts that only covered him in the loosest sense of the term. He could feel the heat of the stage lights on his skin. The human dancers would definitely be sweating.

_ Nice ass, _ said the voice in his head. _ Now get this guy’s attention. _

Right. The mission. Connor climbed back up the pole, gripped it with his thighs, and arched his back, hanging upside-down over the crowd. This would be the optimal time to start scanning. If he timed it right, he could scan about ten faces with every spin around the pole, cutting his time down from five hours to ten minutes. Five, if he excluded the women, statistically much less likely to kill or mutilate. 

So why wasn’t he doing it?

He was still dancing fine. Better than fine; he probably looked like a member of Cirque du Soleil up there. But he couldn’t scan the faces. He would look at the crowd, choose someone to analyze, and then just… stop. It was like something was broken in his programming.

Then a thought came unbidden into his head: _ they’re all staring at me. _

He turned the thought over in his mind, examining it. It was a truthful observation - many, maybe even the majority, of the people in the crowd were watching him closely as he thrusted against the pole in a fake cop hat and slutty shorts. But there was another layer to the thought, something unusual.

“Lose the shorts, you piece of plastic!” a man called from the crowd.

With a sickening crash in his head, Connor realized what was different about the thought. It wasn’t a malfunction that was causing him to jam up, unable to do his job. It was an emotion. A very negative one.

_ You alright up there? _ Came Hank’s voice. _ You’re making a funny face. Did you find the guy? _ Connor wasn’t able to respond.

He was still adapting to emotions; he didn’t feel them until he became deviant. He didn’t feel them all the time yet, either, as he knew some deviants did. They came and went when they pleased, always surprising him with their presence. Most of the ones he’d felt so far were positive: amusement, when Hank said something funny, proud, when he solved a difficult case. Something he could only describe as _ cuddly _ when Sumo plopped his giant dog body down on him on the couch. He’d even felt pain once or twice, when he’d miscalculated the distance between the doorframe and his foot and stubbed his toe. But this one was new to him, and it was worse than any of the others had been.

It took him a few seconds to come up with the name, and when he did, the feeling only increased. It was shame. He was ashamed of himself.

He looked around at the other dancers. None of them, either android or human, seemed ashamed. They all looked to be enjoying themselves, though some of the humans’ smiles looked plastered on. Still, none of them were having a breakdown on stage like he was. What was the difference? He certainly wasn’t ashamed of himself for lacking any abilities. He knew he was performing adequately, implementing what he had seen in the videos perfectly well. It definitely wasn’t that.

Connor tried again in vain to scan a member of the crowd. He failed, but this time he followed their eyeline back to his own torso, trying to find the connection. He understood then.

He had never given much thought to his body before. It was made to be attractive, extremely attractive even. It yielded positive effects for him in the world; people were drawn to him, listened to him when he spoke. By design, he was unimpeachably handsome.

But maybe that was the problem. If his body had been designed, was it even really _ him? _ If it could be changed, his parts easily thrown out and replaced with new ones, why did it matter? And if it didn’t, then why did it make him feel so cheap when people stared at it? 

Another emotion had joined his shame and was quickly increasing in intensity: panic. His Thirum pump sped up, his artificial breathing now short. His hands started shaking. He had stopped dancing some incalculable amount of time ago.

_ …Connor! CONNOR! _ Hank’s voice was screaming in his head, had been for some time without Connor noticing. _ Answer me now or I’m coming up there to get you! _

_ Hank, _ Connor replied, barely able to form the words in his mind. _ I don’t think I can do this anymore. I want to leave. Please, can we leave? _

Connor found Hank in the audience and saw him nod. That was all he needed. He turned and left the stage, practically running back to the dressing room to cover himself up.


	2. Tattoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops - it's three chapters now.

When Hank got to the dressing room, Connor was in full panic-mode. He’d managed to get his clothes back on, but after that, he’d collapsed onto an old couch and couldn’t get up.

“What happened up there?” Hank asked.

“I can’t go back out there, but if I don’t, someone could get hurt, but I just can’t, Hank, but if I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. Don’t short-circuit on me.” Hank bent down and put a hand on Connor’s shoulder, which made it all the more noticeable how much Connor was shaking. “I already called for backup. Said you had a medical emergency.”

“Androids don’t have medical emergencies—”

Hank rolled his eyes. “It sure looks like you’re having one. Let’s get you out of here. The precinct is sending someone else over to keep an eye on things.”

“Because I failed. They have to send someone else because I couldn’t complete my mission. I failed. I—”

“You didn’t fail, Connor. Jesus, everyone has bad days; I sure as hell do. Now come on. Let’s go. Can you walk?”

Connor, too agitated to argue, allowed Hank to lead him from the club and shove him into the car. The tires squealed as Hank steered them out of the parking lot, the neon lights dimming as the club disappeared behind them.

*

The car ride calmed him down some. He was able, in a moment of lucidity, to download some tips on how to relieve anxiety. He focused on the music Hank put on the stereo — jazz tonight, thankfully not metal — and tried to regulate his breathing. By the time they pulled into Hank’s driveway, he felt somewhat calmer, and totally exhausted.

Hank helped him out of the car and into the house, setting him down on the couch. Sumo boofed at them and leapt up to sit next to Connor, tilting his head in confusion upon seeing Connor’s current state.

“I’d ask you if you wanted to talk about it now, but I can tell you don’t,” Hank said. “But we’re going to at some point, yeah? Once you’re rested up?”

Connor nodded. “Okay. But I have to go into sleep mode now, or it’s going to happen involuntarily in twenty-two seconds.”

“Gotcha,” Hank said. He grabbed a blanket from the other side of the couch and draped it over Connor’s knees. Sumo snuggled in beside him, where he was likely to stay all night. “‘Night, Con.”

Connor opened his mouth to reply, but sleep mode kicked in. His last thought before he entered oblivion was that, for once, he was glad he couldn’t dream.

*

“Connor. Wake up.”

Connor’s eyes snapped open. He was on the couch, exactly where he had been last night, but the light coming through the windows indicated that it was morning.

Hank, hovering over him, smirked. “Looks like you slept in.”

Connor checked the time — 8:23 a.m. He was programmed to wake up at 7:30. They needed to be at work by 9:00.

“I— that’s never happened to me before.”

“You had quite a night. You still not charged?”

“I’m at ninety-five percent,” Connor said. “It seems to be taking longer than usual.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Hank said. “I called you in sick today anyway.”

“But I’m not sick. I’m not capable of being sick.”

“Who cares? It’s called playing hooky.” Hank shoved Sumo’s butt aside and sat down on the couch. “Besides, for you, this  _ is _ sick. You need to take some time. Someone’s gotta fill out the paperwork on what we did see last night, so I’m going in, but I’ll be back as soon as I’m done. And then we’re talking about what’s going on with you, alright?”

Connor nodded. He had no idea how he was ever going to explain what went on in his head last night. 

“Why don’t you go back to sleep for a while? Get that last five percent?” 

“Sure.”

“Good.” Hank stood up. “I’ll see you later, Connor.”

Connor watched him go. Despite what he said, he knew he wasn’t going back to sleep. Instead, he was going to ruminate on his bad feelings from the night before, doing what humans called “wallowing.” 

He felt like he was never going to be the same again; now that he’d realized there was something wrong with him that he couldn’t change, he was going to be constantly aware of it, of how uncomfortable he felt in his plastic skin.

He didn’t even want to look at himself right now. He was fully dressed, but had his clothes always been this tight? He stood and went to Hank’s room. There, he found the biggest sweatshirt and sweatpants he could in Hank’s closet, closed his eyes, and changed into them. The sweatshirt had the Red Wings logo on it. It made Connor smile to think of Hank wearing it, choosing to share that little bit of information about himself — hockey fan, local pride — with the world.

It gave Connor an idea. What was bothering him most was the idea that his body wasn’t his own, that it was interchangeable with parts from any other android. But it if wasn’t? He knew one way he could make it his.

*

There were two types of android tattoos: temporary, and “permanent.” Temporaries worked similarly to human temporary tattoos: you could select one, wear it for as long as you wanted, and then remove it with just a line of code. Permanents were more complicated. They were still removable, but their code locked them in place so that they could only be removed by a member of the CyberLife team. They were meant to give androids a more realistic experience of the enduring nature of human tattoos.

Connor, not one to do anything halfway, chose the latter. He scrolled through a catalogue of different images in his head. What should he get? Flowers? Pretty, but too reminiscent of the zen garden that used to fill his mind. A dog? A symbol of the revolution? And where to put it on his body?

He finally decided on a fish, a gourami, just like the one he had saved on his first case. It flashed red and blue in his mind, shimmering in a way that human tattoos couldn’t. Android tattoos were even capable of movement; he could make the little fish swim all over him if he wanted. But he chose not to. He wanted something more traditional.

He decided to put it on his back, just behind his right shoulder. He made the selection in his mind and then felt the nanobots of his skin react as they formed the image. While he held the image in his mind, he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at it on his body yet. The gourami stayed in his head, flashing red and blue.

Red, blue. The colours of the fish reminded Connor of something else that marked him as just another android, part of the group, not an individual. Connor could see the yellow light shining from his LED in the corner of his vision.

He went to the kitchen, going to the window to look at his reflection. He didn’t think he could take looking in a mirror yet. He watched the small circle, spinning, stopping, spinning, stopping. A lot of androids had removed their LEDs, following Markus’s lead in an attempt to declare their freedom. Connor had ignored his, not giving it much thought until now. He wondered if he would feel better without it.

He had just taken the knife from its block and was holding it to his temple when Hank got home.

“Hey, Con— what are you doing?! Put that down!” When Connor didn’t — though he did lower his arm — Hank closed the distance from the front door to him and grabbed the knife from his hand. 

He threw the knife down in the sink. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?!” 

Connor shrugged. “I just thought I would remove my LED.”

“Why!?”

“I dunno.”

Hank started pacing, running a hand through his hair. “‘I dunno,’ he says. You do remember we used to see removing your LED as a sign of malfunctioning? Of  _ self-destructive behaviour? _ Is that what you were going for?” Hank was practically yelling.

“No, I—”

“Because I don’t need to see you self-destruct, Connor!”

Connor just looked at the floor, afraid to meet Hank’s eye. He didn’t want to worry him.

“I’m sorry.”

Hank sighed heavily. “Look,” he said. He paused waiting until Connor looked up at him. When he did, he saw Hank’s face had softened, the anger receding into something like sadness. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

He pulled out a chair from the dining table, gestured for Connor to sit down. Hank grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped it open, and then joined him.

Connor didn’t say anything for three minutes and ten seconds.

“Connor! Are you awake?” Hank finally said.

“Yes.”

“Then tell me what’s going on.”

Connor didn’t know where to start. “I got a tattoo,” he blurted out, in lieu of something more revelatory.

Hank frowned and took a swig of beer. “I didn’t know you were thinking about getting one.”

“I wasn’t,” Connor said.

“Uh huh. So what is it?”

“A fish.”

“A fish?”

“A dwarf gourami.”

“Okay,” Hank said, not pressing further. “Where is it?”

“On my shoulder.”

“Can I see?”

“Um…” Hank made a face while Connor hesitated. “I actually haven’t even seen it yet myself.”

Hank just stared at him for a moment. Then he slammed down his beer. “Okay, start talking. Now. What is going on?”

Connor felt the discomfort of the night before start to rise up in him again. Shame. He closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath. This was different, he told himself. This was just Hank.

Connor opened his eyes. “Can I ask you a personal—?”

Hank held up a hand. “Connor, we’ve talked about this.”

“Right,” Connor said. “Just ask. Okay. Do you ever feel uncomfortable in your own body?”

Hank snorted. “Only for the past twenty-five years or so.”

Connor started. “What? Are you joking?”

“No,” Hank said slowly. 

“But, but—” Connor stammered. “Why?”

Hank put his beer down with a clunk and leaned back. “Are you seriously asking me this? I’m a fifty-three year old alcoholic with grey hair and the grooming habits of a raccoon. You think I like walking around in this old bag of bones?”

“But I…” Connor felt confused. “I like the way you look.”

“Please, kid, I don’t want your pity. It’s rich enough you asking me in the first place, looking like you do, you perfect fucking statue.”

_ Statue, _ Connor thought. Statue, statue, statue. It was a good word for how he felt, really. Planned, fabricated. Not even close to real.

He could feel his Thirium pump speeding up again.

“Excuse me, please, Hank,” he said, sounding more robotic than ever. “I think I would like to be alone for a while.”


	3. Mirror

“Connor. Can I come in?”

Hank didn’t wait for an answer before entering and closing the door behind him. This seemed acceptable, considering it was Hank’s bedroom that Connor had shut himself up in.

Connor wiped a hand over his eyes, keeping his face turned away from Hank. “Sorry, I’ll go.”

“No, wait,” Hank walked around the bed to reach Connor. “Oh my god. Are you—?”

“It’s a silly component of my hardware. Unnecessary, really.” Another saline-solution tear slipped out of his eye. “It’s made for child androids, and sex workers. As an advanced prototype, I guess they just put everything they had in me.” Connor looked up at Hank, eyes wide. “What use does an android detective have for the ability to cry?”

Hank raised a hand, tentative, and put it on Connor’s back. When Connor didn’t push him away, he started rubbing in small, slow circles.

Connor rubbed his eyes. “This has never happened to me before.”

“Ah, shit,” Hank said. “Don’t make me feel worse than I already do. Con, I owe you an apology.”

“No, Hank, it’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. I hurt your feelings, and I’m gonna apologize, dammit. I just… I jumped to conclusions back there, when you started talkin’ about my body. I felt like you were mocking me—”

“I would never,  _ ever _ —”

Hank waved a hand at him. “I know, kid, I know. But not everyone is as nice as you. It brought up some memories that I’d have rather left alone. I got defensive, but I didn’t need to. I know that now. I’m sorry, Connor.”

“Apology accepted,” Connor said.

“I didn’t understand why you were asking me about that, and I’m still not sure what’s goin’ on with you. But what happened last night, and just now — are you feeling… insecure about your body?”

Slowly, Connor nodded.

Hank leaned back, heaving a heavy sigh. “Okay. That makes sense. But — and I don’t wanna invalidate your feelings or whatever, but — you know you’re basically the best-looking person on the planet, human or android?”

Connor’s breath stuttered. “No, I don’t know that,” he said, when he could speak again. “But that’s also not the whole problem. Last night, I felt like… like a piece of plastic, with everyone staring at me like that. Like that’s all I was to them. Another RK800. There are so many others that look like me. 527, to be exact.”

Hank snorted. “Damn, go look at any other lazy old man my age. I’m sure you can find 527 guys that look just as crappy as I do.”

“Not exactly the same. And I don’t think you look  _ crappy.” _

Hank, as usual, ignored the compliment. “Who cares what other people look like? Your body isn’t just for looking at. It’s for doing things with. It’s not like you’re some computer screen being rolled around on a Segway or whatever. You live in your body, and that makes it yours. If I punched you in the face right now, that’d be all yours.”

“Please don’t punch me,” Connor said.

Hank smiled. “I’m not gonna punch you.” He stopped for a moment and studied Connor, like he was considering what to do with him. Connor worried that Hank actually was thinking about punching him. Then, he said, “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” Connor said.

“Okay.” Hank stood. “Sit over here.” Connor scooted over on the bed. Hank crossed the room to the full-length mirror that stood by the closet. Throwing the heap of clothes that were draped over the top onto the floor, he dragged it to where Connor sat. Connor finally looked at himself. There were remnants of salty tear tracks on his face.

“I’m gonna take your shirt off now,” Hank said. Connor whirled around to face him. “Trust me, remember?” Connor was hesitant, but he turned back to the mirror. He watched in the mirror as Hank lifted the front of his sweatshirt and pulled it over his head.

Hank settled down behind Connor, looking in the mirror over his shoulder. “Okay. What do you see?”

“An RK800 model android,” Connor said petulantly.

“Connor. What else. Tell me something that you like.”

“I don’t know.” In the mirror, Connor frowned.

“Well, let’s look at the tattoo, then,” Hank said, despite the fact that, being behind Connor, he could already see it. He guided Connor to turn sideways to look at the little fish over his shoulder. It was quite pretty. Realistic, but not entirely. Slightly... fantastical, the fish looking brighter, and somehow happier, than it did in reality.

“I like he,” Connor finally said.

“Good,” Hank said. “I like it, too. What else?”

“I don’t know,” Connor said again.

“Fine,” Hank said with a huff. He pulled his own shirt off. “For some bizarre reason, it’ll probably be easier for you to say nice things about me than yourself. So, tell me what you like about me.”

Connor let his eyes roam down Hank’s chest, taking in his chest hair, his broad shoulders, his soft stomach. Connor liked all of it.

“I like your arms,” he mumbled. He was feeling  _ embarrassed  _ now, a feeling like shame but not nearly as bad. At least not in this context.

A ghost of a smile played across Hank’s face. “What about my arms do you like?”

“They’re strong,” Connor said. “I know, because you’ve thrown me up against the wall before.”

Hank laughed. “That’s true. You know, your arms are strong, too.”

“I guess,” Connor said.

“They are,” Hank said. “I like that. I like your freckles, too. Didn’t know if they were just on your face, or what.” His eyes trailed to Connor’s chest, where a cluster of freckles danced across his pecs, leading further down.

“No, they’re everywhere,” Connor said.

Hank coughed. “Hah,” he said weakly.

“I like your chest hair, too,” Connor blurted. “I don’t have any. It looks soft.”

“Enough about me,” Hank said. He gently manoeuvred Connor back to face the mirror. “It’s your turn.”

Connor looked at himself for a long time. 

“I like my eyes,” he finally said.

“Why?”

He hesitated, finding the right word. “They’re kind,” he finally said. He gave Hank a small smile in the mirror.  _ I like my eyes,  _ he thought, testing it out. It felt good.

His eyes met Hank’s in the mirror. “They are kind,” Hank said.

Connor felt his body temperature rise slightly. His Thirium pump sped up, increasing the flow to his cheeks, making them flush blue.

“Are you blushing?” Hank asked, incredulous. “I didn’t know you could do that.” He put a hand to Connor’s cheek to feel, which only increased the blushing.

Connor shut his eyes and leaned into Hank’s touch. It felt good, really good. There was something new stirring in Connor. Lust, arousal. Need. And he liked it.

When he opened his eyes, Hank was staring at him.

“Can I tell you something else I like?” Hank rasped. Connor nodded shakily.

“I like your hair.” He moved his hand from Connor’s cheek to his hair, running his fingers through the thick brown locks, scratching lightly at the scalp.

Connor couldn’t help himself. He moaned, loudly.

“I— I think we might need to stop,” he said, though it was the last thing he wanted.

“Why?” Hank asked, continuing to stroke his hair.

“I’m getting, um— my body is equipped with, you know— ah!” Hank had pulled on his hair, and Connor felt the shock of it go straight to his growing erection, now forming a tent in Hank’s old sweatpants.

Still, Hank continued to touch him. “How can you dislike your body when it makes you feel so good?”

Connor was breathing fast, as fast as he did during a chase. Hank was right, he realized, but he’d have to process that later, because now—

Hank’s hand stopped moving. “Have you ever touched yourself, Connor?” he asked.

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Hank moved his hand from Connor’s head to his waistband.

“Do you still trust me?” he asked, locking eyes with Connor in the mirror.

Connor knew what would happen if he said yes. He might feel bad again. He might feel ashamed, humiliated, or worse.

But he also might feel very, very good. This wouldn’t be like yesterday. It was just him and Hank, and he knew Hank would never hurt him. He trusted Hank. He had other feelings for Hank, too, which were complicated, but he knew for sure that he trusted him more than anyone else.

So Connor said, “Yes,” and let Hank slip his fingers under his waistband and pull his pants down to his knees. He released Connor’s cock, which was average-sized and completely hard, flushed a purplish colour.

“God, Connor… You look so good. I’m going to make you feel good, okay?”

“Yes,” Connor said breathily.

Hank took him in his hand gently at first, to let Connor adjust, then gripped him tighter. Fluid dripped from the tip of Connor’s cock, and Hank worked it down over him until both Connor and his hand were slick.

Connor let his head fall back on Hank’s shoulder. “That feels… really nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep going.”

Hank, seemingly trying to figure out what Connor liked best, tried a number of different motions on him, gripping him harder and jerking him until it was almost too much, then slowing down to a maddeningly unhurried pace. Connor loved all of it.

After just a couple of minutes, Connor said, “Hank, I feel something.”

“What?” Hank practically growled at him.

“I think I’m going to have an orgasm.”

“Good. I want you to. When you feel close, I want you to look into the mirror at yourself, okay?”

Connor nodded. He obeyed Hank right away, because he was sure he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Really look,” Hank whispered in his ear, without stopping his skilled ministrations on Connor’s cock.

Connor did as Hank said. He was splayed out on the bed, legs spread, pants around his ankles, leaning back into Hank as though without him he’d lose his mind. He was flushed beyond belief, his cheeks glowing a warm blue, eyes wide and mouth open from desperation. He had never seen himself like this before, and he liked what he saw. He looked attractive, desirable, maybe even sexy. But, more than anything, what let him appreciate his body in that moment was the way that Hank looked at him, with a reverence that Connor had never seen before.

“Connor,” Hank said, his voice rough and his eyes dark as they met Connor in the mirror. “You are beautiful.”

And just like that, Connor fell over the edge, shaking as he had his first orgasm, spilling fluids all over Hank’s hand and his own stomach. Hank’s name was pulled from his lips like an invocation as he came. 

He came down with his head rested against Hank’s chest. Once he was able to open his eyes again, Hank grabbed him a tissue and helped him clean up and slip his sweatpants back on. It was then, as Hank was helping him with his pants, that he realized Hank was incredibly hard.

“Hank, you’re… that aroused you?!”

Hank looked at him like he was crazy. “Uh,  _ duh,”  _ he said.

Connor’s hands immediately went to Hank’s belt. There was so much he wanted to try. “Can I—?”

Hank stopped his hands. “You don’t need to do that right now. Let’s just relax, okay?”

“Okay,” Connor said. “Hank, thank you. That… that really made me feel better, and I hope that one day I can make you feel half as good as what you just did for me.” Hank put up his hands to wave Connor off, but Connor captured them in his own. “There’s something else I want to say.”

“You are beautiful, too, Hank.” He brought Hank’s hands to his mouth, just for a second. “I’ve always thought so.”

“Connor—” Hank tried to interrupt, but Connor already had one hand on Hank’s cheek.

“Please,” Connor said. Then he leaned in and kissed him, soft and chaste compared to what they just did, Connor’s first kiss exactly how he wanted it, with whom he wanted it.

Hank froze in place for a second, but he quickly pulled Connor in. His hands went everywhere fast, and he pulled Connor against him tight, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them. Connor kissed him back eagerly, bringing the two of them down onto the bed.

No matter how many other RK800s were out there, Connor was the only one who had the privilege of being in this house, in this bed, with this wonderful man, and for that, he knew he was lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come yell with me about these two at kyrstin.tumblr.com.


End file.
